


Too Rude To Be A Knight

by Mewem



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 07:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18960451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mewem/pseuds/Mewem
Summary: This is my first EVER fan fic, so I welcome any & all constructive criticism!I'm still learning how best to format and developing pacing etc., so please bare with me.This chapter is shorter than I would like so hopefully future chapters will be longer.Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy, please leave me feedback <3





	Too Rude To Be A Knight

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first EVER fan fic, so I welcome any & all constructive criticism!  
> I'm still learning how best to format and developing pacing etc., so please bare with me.  
> This chapter is shorter than I would like so hopefully future chapters will be longer.  
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy, please leave me feedback <3

SANDOR

Lights pulsed over her skin, illuminating her with reds and yellows and greens as she danced, swaying seductively from side to side. The dance floor was packed with sweaty bodies, youths probably all 10 or more years his junior, but Sandor only had eyes for her. Auburn hair cascaded down her back, and the jewels glinting at her throat tried (and failed) to distract him from the tight dress molded to her lithe body. Truthfully, it was rare for him to notice anything other than a woman’s body - Gods know _they_ avoided _his_ face - but even though he couldn’t see the exact colour, her half-lidded, piercing eyes beckoned him closer. He could see her dress riding up her thighs, and although his breath caught in anticipation, an unusual anger flooded through him. He didn’t want anyone else to see what he could.

 

“Who’s this then?”

Bronn was back, forcing another beer into his hands, and his question had startled him.

“Who the fuck are you talking about?” he replied casually, turning away from the red-headed beauty on the dance floor and taking a huge gulp.

“She got yer tongue as well as your brain? It’s obvious, the way yer oglin’ her.”

“Can’t a man have a drink without a nosey cunt getting in his business?”

“Ah, avoidance, you really are a shy pup.” He leaned against the bar, studying the subject of Sandor’s interest. “Nice arse, long legs, but all I’m wonderin’ is if the carpet matches the drapes!” Guffawing at his own joke, he then points to the brunette next to her, dancing in a bright pink dress that hurt his eyes. “Now _there’s_ the type that I’m lookin’ for.”

“I’ve no idea why anyone fucks you.”

 

The women tried talking to each other over the music, probably sharing Bronn’s obvious interest. He couldn’t help but notice the red head’s delicate profile, how the slight upturn of her nose ended with a point he wanted to kiss, how her soft, arched brows and soft, full lips moved with her every expression, how her long neck carried graceful, bird-like shoulders. _Buggering hells, it wasn’t like him to be so fucking Florian and Jonquil_ . He shifted absent-mindedly, and realised how hard he was getting just looking at her. _Turning into a green boy now? For fucks sake._

Bronn was right, her shapely legs carried on for leagues, and the sensual movements of her hips had him rooted to the floor. His eyes travelled up her body again, eager to watch how her mouth parted with every exertion, how _her_ eyes were looking straight at him. _Wait, what?_ Flustered, he quickly averted his gaze, embarrassed to have been caught looking at her so brazenly. He sneaked a look back, but she was still focused on him, as though her dance was meant, suddenly, for him and him only.

The brunette touched her arm and whispered in her ear, snapping them both out of it, and he didn’t know whether to be livid or grateful. The brunette was mouthing something at Bronn, now, that seemed to end with “watch” and a sultry smile. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around the red-head’s waist and began to lick the underside of her throat. The men didn’t even waste a second turning to each other in surprise, not wanting to miss the show. The red-head, startled at first, began to reciprocate, leisurely arching her back and fisting her hands in the brunette’s hair. Soft sucks, kisses and licks led her to the red-head’s mouth, and they eagerly began grinding against each other, absorbed in their own world. It was almost obscene, and if it weren’t for the writhing bodies that surrounded them, more people would have taken notice. They split apart, flushed with glistening mouths, and looked at their audience. The brunette was grinning, satisfied, and the red-head smiled shyly.

 

“Fuck.” Bronn let out a long sigh after cursing.

“Fuck.” Sandor agreed.

“Well, Hound, if you don’t want her, I’ll happily take ‘em both.” He beckoned the girls over with a playful hand gesture.

 

Sandor growled at the thought of anybody else having her, but the logical part of his head, the part that wasn’t addled with lust or drink, made him question why he was so possessive of this random woman. Irritation lanced through him at the thought of this girl taking control of his emotions so easily.

As they approached, he could see a dusting of freckles across her nose and collarbone, and he couldn’t stop himself from wondering where else.

 

“I’m Bronn, and this is Sandor,” he said, winking, “now who are you lovely ladies?”

Sandor pointedly avoided the red-head’s gaze, unwilling - _no, he was perfectly willing_ \- to be beguiled anymore.

“I’m Margaery, and this is Sansa,” the brunette mirrored, inching a step closer to Bronn, “why don’t you order us some more drinks?”

They stepped closer to the bar together, beginning a conversation, and that left Sandor with the red-head. _Sansa, her name was Sansa._

 

“Hi,” she ventured, leaning in close so he could hear her over the pounding music, smiling at him. He could smell the alcohol on her breath, and that would have been the giveaway for her inebriated state if it weren’t for her swaying all over the place.

“Hi.” he responded gruffly, too curt, and he kicked himself for being such an ass.

“I like your T-shirt.”

Surprised, his head whipped down to face her, and he had to suppress a gasp. Big, beguiling, powder-blue eyes looked up at him. She looked so innocent, and by the Gods it irritated him.

“Didn’t know girls like you knew AC/DC.”

“Girls like me?”

“Yeah, the head-in-the-clouds type, pulling cheap tricks to get men to notice them.”

_Shit, where had that come from?_

She recoiled from him, affronted, and although he couldn’t blame her, the increase in distance between them tugged at something painful inside of him.

“So you’ve known me for.. two minutes and you’re judging me?”

He winced inwardly, but plastered a mask of indifference over his face. He knew he was being horrible. Her beauty intensified his self-consciousness, and her false innocence angered him.

“There’s a lot worse than me, little bird. I just say it how it is.”

“Little bird?”

“Well, yeah, you kind of, you know, you remind me of a bird.”

His earlier behaviour had left her wary of him, but she edged closer, blatantly looking at his scars, her courage fuelled by the drink in her system. The exposure ran a cold chill through him, but her eyes harboured no disgust, no pity. Interest, maybe, or merely the remnants of anger.

“I like birds,” she murmured.

“Me too.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, ignoring the swell of her breasts atop her dress and her stained pink cheeks.

“It was Margaery’s idea, the kiss. We don’t - I don’t, usually do those things. I’m a virgin, for Gods sakes!”

Well, that pulled the rug from under him. How was a beautiful woman like her a virgin? After that display on the dance floor, he’d presumed otherwise.. So the innocence wasn’t an act at all.

He had no time to respond, thank the Gods, because Bronn and Margaery were all over each other, only breaking apart to inform Sandor that they were off, and he had to take Sansa home.

“What?!” he shouted after them, knowing full well he couldn’t leave her here to fend for herself. She picked that moment to stagger, and he caught her by the waist and a wrist.

“Why thank you, ser, you saved me. You’re like a knight, no, not a knight, you’re too rude.” Bursting into giggles, she palmed his chest, fisting the material and shutting her eyes.

“My head hurts.”

He had a sudden desire to wrap himself around her and rub away her pain, but he fought against it and leaned into her ear.

“I’m going to take you home now. Where do you live?”

“I can’t remember. Oh! I do! Oh no, Sandy, Marg has my keys!”

_‘Sandy’?! What the hell?_

Taking her hand, he led her to the bar and ordered a glass of water. She wrapped her arm around his bicep and he groaned inwardly, wanting to get away from her touch at the same time as wanting to be doused in it.

“Drink.”

“More? I’m sloshed. Sloshed, what a funny word!”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“It’s water.”

She drunk as much as she could, laughing at his stern expression when she finished it and tried to order a vodka.

 

-

 

He guided her outside, trying not to be too fast, even though she deserved it. _Who puts herself in this state with a random man? What sort of friend leaves her with a random man?_

“Please, wait, my heels, they’re--”

Roughly, he hoisted her over his shoulder, his big hands gripping her smooth thighs.

“Hey!” she shouted, hitting his back.

She wasn’t hurting him, but he smacked her ass and she moaned.

_He was going to have a coronary._

 

-

 

He opened his apartment door as well as he could with a woman hung over his shoulder. Although she weighed no more than a feather, she was squirming around in his grasp, leaving him both aroused and annoyed.

Unceremoniously, he plopped her on his settee. The cold night air initially seemed to have sobered her up a little, because she sat up and tried to unbuckle her heels. It was like watching a deer on ice, though, and he went to crouch beside her, taking a slim calf and putting her foot in his lap. One by one he undid the straps, desperately trying not to linger his fingertips on her skin.

“My makeup, now, please.”

“What am I, a buggering handmaiden?” he snarled, but dutifully collected a warm, wet cloth and resumed his position next to her. She closed her eyes and he gently washed away the black lining her eyes and the rouge on her cheeks. As he was about to get up, she looked at him and put her hand on his face, the scarred side. He had no time to shove her away, because she was softly caressing him, and he could barely breathe.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He leaned into her touch, and he knew full well all the power lay solely in her hands, her soft, dainty hands that filled him with hope, and a feeling more foreign to him.

“It’s time to sleep now, little bird.”

She nodded, dog-tired, and he scooped her up into his arms, a precious thing that he daren't let go of. Walking into his bedroom, he laid her down and tucked her in, smoothing the hair away from her face and kissing her forehead before he could decide against it.

“Good night,” he said, but she was already asleep.


End file.
